


The Edge of His Skin

by hiasobi_writes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied Torture, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 16:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiasobi_writes/pseuds/hiasobi_writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sheriff Stilinski has to work the one case he never, ever wanted to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Edge of His Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Written mostly because the damn thing wouldn't leave my head. Title from the Blue October song "You Make Me Smile". Also, you can blame [Snow](http://snowdarkred.tumblr.com/) for this actually getting posted.
> 
> This is not a happy story.

Mark has always felt comfortable with his job. He'd been a deputy for years, and running for sheriff after Cheryl died had seemed like the natural progression. Burying himself in his work had been better than burying himself in alcohol. He's always been proud of his job.

Right now he hates it.

One of his deputies has a hand on his elbow and the other at his waist, supporting most of his weight. She half-carries him over to the patrol car, opening the passenger side door so he can sit down.

"Breathe, Sheriff," she says, voice calm and poised and how can she be that way when--

He sucks in a huge gulping breath, choking on it while he tries not to break down.

The deputy (Megan? He can't even keep his own officers straight, not when--) stands up, reaching out to get a hand at his back, rubbing up and down along it gently. "Just keep breathing."

He finds himself thinking involuntarily of what the doctors had told Stiles when he was younger. _Focus on your breath. In and out. Open up your chest; give the breath more space. Just focus on your breath_. He manages it for a few stuttering breaths at that before he realizes what he was thinking about and it all comes back into focus.

Stiles.

The day he was born. The day they brought him back to the house. First steps. First day of school. First report card. First crush. (Only crush.) The day he got his driver's license and the day he'd driven off in that death-trap of a car for the first time.

Tantrums he'd thrown and fights they'd gotten into. How fast he'd grown up when they'd found out about Cheryl's cancer. The anger and the shouting and the resignation in the last few days (weeks).

The brightness of his smile as he'd left the house Friday morning. The paleness of his face in. In.

He shakes his head, pressing his face into his palms. "This isn't happening."

It should have been a regular night. Stiles had been out camping with his friends for the long weekend, but would be back that night. Whole and healthy and happy.

Not dead and mutilated almost beyond recognition.

Almost. But not quite.

His face is virtually untouched. Cuts lace his throat and scalp (and probably his arms and chest and thighs but he can't think that far into it not yet), but his face is clear except for the burns that had spread over his right cheek. His mouth is stretched in a smile, as though he'd died laughing.

Megan won't let him drive the patrol car to the morgue, forcing him to take the passenger seat instead.

He just sits there and breathes.

\----

The text is two words long and leaves Derek more drained than he's felt in almost a year and a half. He's lost before. He's lost a lot. This should be just one more drop in the bucket. But it never gets easier. It's always just one more thing, one more weight to carry.

He's lost his parents. He's lost his sister. He's killed his only remaining living relative. But he'd been starting to heal. Slowly, and imperfectly, but he'd been healing. And now that's exactly what's going to leave him weak again.

His phone is heavy in his hand, and even as he lets his arm fall to his side, lets the phone slip to the ground, the message is still burned into his eyes. It stays there, cold and bright, while Lydia grabs the phone and gasps, while Allison screams, while Scott howls out the greatest pain he's known.

_Too slow_.

\----

Mark isn't sure what he'd expected when the door to the department had slammed open, but it certainly wasn't an angry, wide-eyed Derek Hale storming past the front desk to come to a stop right in front of Mark's desk and slam his fists down on it.

"Where is he?"

Mark blinks, thinking that Hale's eyes had flashed red, but attributing the hallucination to the stress, because _really_ , Stilinski? So he just frowns up at Hale instead. "What are you talking about, Hale?"

"Your son. He's not in the hospital. So where _is_ he?"

There's only one way anyone outside of the force could know that something had happened, let alone something that would leave Stiles in the hospital or worse. So he signals to Phillips before he levels Hale with a steady stare. "I repeat. What are you talking about?"

Hale just glares at him. "Where. Is. Your son."

"Why don't you tell me?"

This time he's pretty sure he didn't imagine the flash of red in his eyes. "I would never hurt your son, Sheriff."

"How do you even know that he's been hurt? And," he adds, the thought occurring to him without warning, "how do you know he's not at the hospital?"

"I can't." Hale makes a frustrated low in his throat. "I can't tell you that. But, please, just. Just tell me where he is."

"He's in the morgue."

The honest shock and pure agony in Hale's face as he crumples to the ground is enough for Mark to let him walk back out the door five minutes later.

\----

"Argent!" His throat is raw from the twenty minutes he'd spent alternately screaming, howling, and crying, and the hunter's name sounds angrier than usual thanks to the tone. " _Argent!_ "

Chris comes to the door with a rifle in his hand, looking disgruntled. "Derek," he replies, clearly trying for pleasant, and missing by a mile.

"Who were they?" he snarls.

Chris has the audacity to look confused. "Who were who?"

"The hunters you sent after my pack. Who were they?"

"I didn't send any--"

"They may not follow your code, but they wouldn't come here without telling you. Who were they?"

"Believe it or not, Derek, humans are not as territorial as wolves. We don't feel the need to stake a claim over a town the way you animals do."

Derek darts up the lawn too quickly for human eyes to track, half-shifting and looming over Chris in his rage. He catches the rifle in his hand, tipping it back and away as he does. "Nothing goes on in this town without you knowing. Who. Were. They." When Chris still doesn't answer, Derek leans in close. He knows the smile on his face must look absolutely demented to the hunter, but he can't find it in him to care. "If you won't tell me, then Stiles Stilinski's death is on your head, and I will take it out of your hide. Piece. By. Piece."

Chris doesn't hesitate. "They don't settle anywhere, mostly because they don't wait and they don't follow the code. They just find a pack, slaughter all the wolves in it, and leave."

\----

Chris never regrets using the favors he calls in to get Derek the name of their motel and the room number.

\----

"If that was you trying to destroy us, you picked the wrong member of the pack to start with."

Derek has only killed one person in his life, and that had been difficult. Painful, even. That's what killing is supposed to feel like.

But tearing these insects, these _monsters_ to pieces is the most satisfying thing he's ever done.

(Allison's waiting at his house with the raw aconite to heal the bullet wounds. He hadn't even noticed he'd taken any.)

\----

"He died from heart failure."

"He's eighteen, Christoph."

"And he died from heart failure."

Mark swallows, knowing that he's missing something obvious. "What aren't you telling me?" When Christoph hesitates, Mark sits down, readying himself for the worst. "I'm sitting down. What aren't you telling me?"

"He. He was subjected to prolonged electric shock. I can't say for certain, but it looks like it was done in increasing time periods until his heart gave out."

"Someone _tortured_ my _son_?"

Christoph shrugs helplessly. "That's what it looks like."

Mark presses his hands into his eyes. "So, that'll explain the superficial knife damage as well, then, right?"

"I'd imagine. That's more your department, Mark."

Mark huffs out a breath that, if it were anyone but Stiles, might have been a dry laugh. He can feel the hesitation in the air. "Was there something else, Christoph?"

"I think it might be best if I show this to Tim instead."

If there's one way to get a Stilinski interested, it's deflection. Mark's on his feet, frowning at Christoph. "What? What is it?"

"I really think--"

"What. Happened."

Christoph just hands over the medical report, pointing to one line among the mess.

_Evidence of sexual assault by multiple assailants_.

He's grateful that Christoph has been with the department longer than he has, because he'd been there when Cheryl died, and he's seen Mark like this before.

Well, maybe not quite like this.

\----

Derek washes the blood from his skin and burns the clothes before he goes back to see the sheriff. He sits in front of him, voice monotone as he tells the man everything. The werewolves and the hunters and how Stiles got mixed up in it. Who took him and why. The only change in his demeanor is when he shifts for a brief moment to prove his honesty.

The sheriff takes the whole thing with a surprising amount of calmness. "It explains a hell of a lot," he says at Derek's confusion. Then he slides an autopsy report across the table.

Words pop out at him; _electric shock_ , and _blood loss_ , and _multiple contusions_ , and oh god does that say--?

He closes his eyes, pressing a hand over his face to fight down the rising bile and bloodlust.

"How many were there?" the sheriff asks, voice hoarse.

Derek chokes on a sob, knowing what he's asking. "Five."

The sheriff hisses, pulling back sharply.

"They're dead," Derek says dully, face still in his hands.

"Mountain lion?"

Derek jerks his head up, disbelieving.

"If I could do that to the cancer that took my wife, I would. I'm just selfishly glad that someone was able to do it to the monsters that took my son."

Derek can't help but share the dark smile the sheriff gives him.

"Mountain lion," he asserts.


End file.
